The Most Loyal House of All
by AgreedAmpersand
Summary: Not many know of this small House, but they are known to serve a greater purpose. To ensure the survival of the Starks. And they will do this at any cost.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Game of Thrones, or any characters in this story other than my own created characters. Also, I will be pulling passages directly from the books.

Away in the North, nestled amongst the mountains, stands a peak. CLANG. While it may be larger than the others that surround it, that is where the similarities end. CLANG. For this Mountain was the stronghold of a lesser known, but powerful, family. In the bathycolpian depths of the fortress, embedded deep in the natural rock, where the flows of magma still heated the ancient rock, was a chamber. CLANG. And in that chamber, lay a forge. CLANG. A forge hotter than any other. CLANG. A forge powered by the very lifeblood of the earth itself. CLANG. And at this forge, stood an enormous man, swinging his hammer in time with the beat of his heart. CLANG Slow and steady. CLANG. He often came here to reflect on what has been happening throughout Westeros. CLANG. And as he continued to beat on that piece of steel, one thought traveled through his mind: 'Soon, it shall begin. There is no avoiding it now that Jon Arryn is dead.' And as this thought went through his mind, he thought of his family. Of his friends. Of the Lord his forebear had sworn undying allegiance to, and that of his line. 'They will need our help,' the enormous man thought, as he dunked the red hot steel in the trough of water on the other end of the chamber, and left it there. He straightened up to his full height, an imposing and terrifying 8 and a half feet, and rolled his thick, muscle-bound shoulders. As he turns to stride out of the forge chamber, he mutters to himself, "It Is Always Darkest Just Before The Dawn. And it looks to be getting darker before it gets brighter….."

330 leagues to the south, and a few days later, the King's entourage was arriving in Winterfell. The visitors poured through the castle gates in a river of gold and silver and polished steel, three hundred strong, a pride of bannermen and knights, of sworn swords and freeriders. Over their heads a dozen golden banners whipped back and forth in the northern wind, emblazoned with the crowned stag of Baratheon.

Lord Eddard Stark knew many of the riders. There came Ser Jaime Lannister with hair as bright as beaten gold, and there Sandor Clegane with his terrible burned face. The tall boy beside him could only be the crown prince, and that stunted little man behind them was surely the Imp, Tyrion Lannister.

Yet the huge man at the head of the column, flanked by two knights in the snow-white cloaks of the Kingsguard, seemed almost a stranger to Ned . . . until he vaulted off the back of his warhorse with a familiar roar, and crushed him in a bone-crunching hug. "Ned! Ah, but it is good to see that frozen face of yours." King Robert Baratheon looked him over top to bottom, and laughed. "You have not changed at all."

Later that night, during the King's welcome feast, Ned and King Robert sat at the high table in Winterfell's Great Hall, voices nearly drowned out by the clamor of feasters. They were catching up on what the other had been through for the past 15 years.

"Oh yes, Ned, it is a dreadfully harsh life for the King of the Seven Kingdoms," said Robert with a deep belly laugh. "What with the eating, and the drinking, and the sleeping, and the sitting. All quite a lot of work. Takes the life right out of you."

Ned retorted dryly, "Yes, it must be for a man such as you to have to shoulder the job."

"Excuse me, Lord Stark," said Queen Cersei sharply, "You are talking to your king, not some old war dog you met on the battlefield."

The king didn't even look at her. "Quiet woman! I practically know Lord Stark better than I know myself! So mind your tongue. Ah, can you see Ned? Nearly all the heroes of the Rebellion are here. Only a few are missing…..tell me, where is…..?"

Ned cut in before he could finish, "Malcolm?"

"Aye, Malcolm Thunderfist! Bahahahaha, do you remember how mad he used to get when we called him that?"

"Oh yes, I do indeed remember. And I understand that that is what many people call him now," said Ned, with a slight smile playing on his lips.

"Is that so? and Where has he gone?"

"He stays in his lands most of the time these days. The last time he was here was about 2 years ago. I can't even recall WHY he came." Said Ned, with a look of fleeting confusion on his face.

"Well, have your maester send him a raven!" Robert grinned as he said this, "Tell him his old friend the king wishes to see him!"

A look of concern washed over Ned. Malcolm always managed to find trouble when the Lannisters were near. He didn't think it was a good idea, but he furrowed his brow, swallowed his opinion, and replied with "Yes, My Liege."

Eddard leaned across to Maester Luwin and said into his ear so the old man could hear him above the din, "Send word to Lord Haemar at Anvil Mount, by way of the Ferrum Gate. Use your fastest raven. Say that I ask he travel here with all haste" He leaned away and the Maester nodded and began to rise so he could send the message, but Ned stopped him with his hand. Almost as an afterthought, he added, "Oh, and tell him to bring Dawnhammer and his double-blades. The King and his court will want a show…."

"Yes, Lord Stark." replied Luwin, "right away."

The Haemar's Maester, a young, thin man named Grorum, hurried towards the staircase of the East tower of Anvil Keep. Before he entered and began his short adventure, he stopped for a moment and looked up in the darkness of the early morning. He saw bright lights like fire and sparks emanating from the windows at the top.

'Oh no' he thought, 'He has the forges stoked very hot tonight. That's never a good sign…..' Grorum sighed to himself and hurried on towards a thick door set at the base of the tower.

While many people think that the East tower of Anvil Keep, known as Forge Tower, is a beacon to let the people know when the ruling family is home again, it in fact serves an entirely different purpose. As Maester Grorum pulled an intricate key from a hidden pocket in his cloak, he inserted it into the lock, pushed and turned. He heard all the different locks and deadbolts retracting from their housings, and when the din ceased, he pushed open the heavy door, and it swung easily on well-oiled hinges. Grorum paused for a moment to bask in the heat enveloping him, as it was more often than not quite cold in the Northwest highlands of Westeros. And then he descended. Down, down down, into the depths of Anvil Mount, where ancient magma flows still heated the stone. The real purpose of Forge Tower is not as a lookout tower, or as a light to know when someone is home, but as a chimney. A chimney reaching down into the very forge where some of the first weapons of the Haemar were forged. Where Ronnen Haemar used exposed lava to shape and form the weapons of his army before his famed march to save a descendant of Bran the Builder.

Grorum felt the heat get nearly unbearable in his heavy maester's robe. But he knew he could make it all the way down. He has served the Lord of Anvil Mount most of his adult life, so he knew that the massive man was always considerate of others. As a Haemar, he was able to withstand much higher temperatures than any other men living. But he always wanted to make sure he was reachable, no matter what. As the Maester reached the bottom of the stairs, he knocked at the heavy, iron door three times. he heard a rumble from within that could only be described as subliminal.

"Enter."

The door creaked as Grorum pushed it open, saying as he did so "Lord Malcolm, am I disturbing you?" His eyes fell upon a massive forge, in front of which was standing an even more massive man. Lord Malcolm 'Thunderfist' Haemar eyes lit up when he looked over his shoulder and saw the Maester. A small grin showed through his jet-black, close cropped beard.

"Why, Maester Grorum! What brings you to my humble and reclusive forge?"

"My lord, I have received a raven from Winterfell, by way of the Ferrum Gate….."

Malcolm's large size belied his incredible speed. He twirled around so fast that sparks flew off the large, red hot piece of steel he was holding in one hand.

"What news from Lord Stark?"

Grorum put up his hands in a placating gesture towards the giant man. "Nothing bad, my lord. He requires your presence…"

"Why?"

"If you will allow me to finish, Lord Malcolm." Grorum cleared his throat and took a deep breath before continuing. "he requests your presence at the behest of King Robert Baratheon."

Malcolm's face visibly darkened at the mention of the name. "Why would Lord Eddard use the Ferrum Gate? He knows that that is the fastest way to get news to me, but also the most insecure…..I guess he wants me there as soon as possible. Anything else, Grorum?"

"Oh, yes sir. He also asks that you bring the DawnHammer, as well as your double blades. He says that you will need to entertain the masses, while at the same time dealing with the King and Queen."

"Why does Lord Stark want me there? When that thing is there? WHY must that retched THING be there?! That WOMAN he calls a wife. That…..that…..LANNISTER…" Malcolm took a deep breath and sighed. "Alright. No point in griping over spilled steel. I'll also take along a few of the children. They would like the change in scenery. Prepare the horses and my travel mountings. I will be up soon."

"Yes, My Lord Haemar."

Lady Madeline Haemar was a small woman, but the same could not be said about her personality or her heart. She was very boisterous and loving, acting as though everyone she knew was her child. She was beloved by the entire population of Anvil Mount and indeed by that of the entire region. As she bustled around her private kitchen adjoining the main hall, buried deep within Anvil Mount, she hummed to herself a little ditty to keep herself entertained. She felt the heavy door to the hall slam shut, and knew that there was only one person who could effectively slam that door.

'Oh dear' she thought, 'I wonder what news that raven brought to put him in such a bad mood. He almost never slams that door…'

She heard and felt a thud in the soles of her feet. Lady Madeline knew that her husband had flopped down onto his massive chair at the head of the hall and she already knew the position in which he was sitting. Whenever he was burdened by something, Malcolm either came here and sat in his chair, or went to visit the Ancestor, a secret forge, only accessible by the Haemar blood line. She realized that he must have been in the Tower Forge, since Grorum had been able to reach him. And now he was here.

'Well, might as well go see what is wrong.' she thought to herself as she wiped the flour on her hands off on her apron. She pushed her way through the swinging door and into the enormous Main Hall of the Anvil Citadel. It was an absolutely massive room, easily twice the size of the Great Hall of Winterfall, and positioned at the head of the hall was a tremendous chair carved of Ironwood. It had an incredibly simple design to it, as befit the humble beginnings of the Haemar. Madeline walked right up to the biggest man in all of Westeros, and lightly slapped him on the shoulder.

"Ow! What was that for, love?" grunted Malcolm.

"How many times have I told you not to slam that door! It teaches the children it is alright!" she admonished.

"Ok, yes, you are right, darling, love of my life." Madeline couldn't help but smile at that. Malcolm and her might seem like they are fighting, or arguing, but in reality, there is no man she would rather be with. In her opinion, along with most of the region's, there was not a man more fair, more kindhearted, loving, and down-to-earth than Lord Malcolm Haemar.


End file.
